


Mr Darcy's Bed: (Smutty) Original Ending

by S_Faith



Series: Mr Darcy! Mr Darcy! [2]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 17:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8542423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Extended ending to "Mr Darcy's Bed"...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Also from 2013, from an original post to LiveJournal. 
> 
> I encourage you to read the original story first, if you haven't. I thought the dive into smut here was a bit too much of a change. So I saved the original ending for a separate story with a stronger rating.

"Good morning, darling."

Bridget opened her eyes from her deep slumber and gasped. Smiling down at her was not Mr Darcy—oh God, how close she had come to utter betrayal!—but her own wonderful, handsome, loving fiancé. "Mark!" she exclaimed, then threw herself at him, embracing him tightly, knocking him back onto his pillow and kissing him desperately, tears welling in her eyes.

"Well," he said as she nuzzled into his neck, placing kisses there, combing her fingers through his hair. "I'll take that to mean it _is_ a good morning. Was thinking of ordering breakfast but this seems like a much nicer start to our Saturday."

She stopped and drew back to look at him. "Saturday?" 

"Yes," he said. "Since we only arrived last night, remember?"

She blinked in her confusion. She had lived almost a week at Pemberley in the space of a single night! "Oh!" she said.

"What is it?"

"I…" She looked up at Mark. "I had the most vivid dream about living in this house in Regency. It was 1810, there was a ball, and Jane Austen was there, and I was Mr Darcy's ward."

For a moment she wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or feel for a fever. "Well, for a minute there I was worried you were going to say 'Mr Darcy's mistress'," he said in a facetious tone. This made her blush furiously, which made him laugh. "Oh, darling," he said, scooping her up into his embrace. "Even if you did it's just a dream, and as you said, he looks like me, so I can't be too fussed."

She grinned, then kissed him again; he seemed to be determined to compete with her supposed dream-lover and eagerly ran his hands over her willing body. "Bridget," he asked quietly, a hint of amusement tinting his voice. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"What?" She pushed back to see his hand splayed upon her bottom—and to see that she was, impossibly enough, wearing the lacy pantalets she had kept on because her legs had been cold…

"Don't say 'what'," he teased again. "Why are you wearing those? Where on earth did they come from?"

Her thoughts were in a whirl. If it had just been a dream, then where had the pantalets come from—?

"Mind you, I fancy them quite a bit," he went on. "Sexy in their way."

"I…" she began hesitantly, then continued brightly, "I picked these up in London. Slipped them on before you woke. Thought you might… fancy a bit of a roleplaying."

He smiled, brushing her hair back with his fingertips. "Well, that certainly explains your dream, doesn't it?" 

With that he kissed her; his hands continued to explore over the curve of her backside, at least until he broke off saying, "What the deuce…?"

His words mirroring Mr Darcy's took her aback. She was about to ask what was the matter, but then saw the devilish grin on his face and felt his finger teasing along the opening of the pantalets. "My, my. I wonder about those nineteenth century ladies," he teased.

"That's what I thought too, but no, it's practical," she said. "There's a split so they can use the bourdaloue without having to take everything all off. Like Y-fronts."

He looked stunned for a moment before bursting out in a little laugh, then bending to resume kissing her again. "You're sexy when you do that sort of thing," he murmured, nibbling on her earlobe.

"What sort of thing?" she said, then gasped; she liked it when he did _that_ sort of thing too.

"Drop these gorgeous little nuggets of obscure info. Love you as much for your brain as your body," he whispered; she was about to chastise him for talking too much when the velvet of his tongue touched upon her neck and drew a line along her throat. Swiftly he turned them over, his hand moving from her hip to her thigh, before slipping his fingers along then under the hem on the inner leg of the pantalets. As his finger brushed against her skin he made a very pleased sound deep in his throat. 

Not that she was silent at the feel of his fingertips along such sensitive skin. After all, after whatever it was that had happened, in her mind she hadn't been with Mark in nearly a week and she was desperate for his touch.

She heard (and felt) the low rumble of laughter come from him as he lavished kisses again upon her cheek. "What's funny," she said, rather than asked.

"How can you say you missed me," he said, "when we shagged like bunnies into the wee hours?"

"I think this place does weird things to time," she said, then moaned as his fingers languorously slid over her, between her legs: "Oh Mr Darcy!"

"Mmm," he said, teasing her mercilessly with his fingers. "You _are_ acting a little like we haven't… in a month." She gasped again, squirmed under his touch; she could tell by the timbre of his voice that he was extremely turned on by her responses. "Or… are you angling for prim, virginal Regency lady?"

She reined in the urge to chuckle at the very idea of 'virginal', but said in her most demure voice, "Oh, _sir_ , you take such liberties!"

He reared back, drawing his hand away; his eyes were smoky and his gaze, penetrating. "That's not all I'll take," he growled, then pushed aside the gauzy dress.

As he worked at the clasp of the Wonderbra, she closed her eyes. "No contractions," she burbled. The bra's halves came open and he commenced to drawing his tongue, his mouth, over the tip of one breast while his right hand held and caressed the other. "They were common," she breathed. "Vulgar."

"Vulgar," he repeated; the hand withdrew from her breast as his teeth made an appearance, gently grazing over her nipple. She felt it again on her thigh, then her knee as he pushed it roughly aside; he moved up and over her, between her legs, his fingers just as insistent as before, possibly more so. She groaned and arched into him, musing disconnectedly that he was acting almost as desperate as she felt, as if they really hadn't shagged in weeks.

"Fuck," he said, his voice gravelly and extremely thick. His hand came away again, and she felt him hurriedly shifting around as if adjusting himself. "Can't wait."

"Cannot," she corrected, or at least started to when he abruptly and forcefully thrust into her.

As he drove forward again and again like some sort of sex-starved tiger rutting away, he unleashed the most impressive string of dirty talk she'd ever heard come out of him: how he never could've waited until they were married to "fuck" (she loved it so much when he talked filthy to her); calling her a beautiful, dirty, sexy girl; how he would have swept her off _sub rosa_ to a dark corner, taken her up against a wall, because he would have gone mad otherwise…. 

His stream of words was, of course, not nearly as articulate, full of growls and grunts and hot breath in her ear, but she got the gist and it escalated her passion exponentially. His own impending climax announced itself with a trembling of his whole body, a marked quickening of his breath, an increased rapidity in his thrusting, until he went perfectly taut and groaned loudly and at length.

He had the good grace to fall a little off to the side when he was through rather than collapse upon her, though made up for the lack of enthusiastic thrusting with a long kiss and staccato caresses where their bodies joined; the end result was that she came with almost as loud a groan as he had. He gathered her up in his arms and held her against him, her cheek pressed to the wildly thumping pulse in his neck.

"Oh, love," he said. "Darling, my darling girl. I don't know what came over me."

She giggled. "That was less Jane Austen, more _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ ," she said breathlessly. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

"I should hope not," he said tenderly. He then let out a long sigh, stroking his hand over her hair. "Darling," he said affectionately, very close to her ear. "Every day that passes tells me there's no one for me but you."

She turned and placed a kiss against his throat. "How convenient," she said, "because I feel the very same." She pushed herself up to look into his eyes. "It's awfully tempting to forego the tour of the house and grounds, and see nothing of this fine estate but our room."

"I thought you wanted to see everything," he quipped.

"Feel like I already have," she murmured.

"Oh, yes. The dream. The one that manifested these incredibly accommodating pants." After a beat, he added with a smirk, "Must keep them for future use. Perhaps you can wear them under your wedding dress."

She smirked in return. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Damn right I would," he said smokily, then raised his chin to brush his lips against hers, igniting passion anew… at least until his stomach made a noise that instantly quashed said passion in an eruption of laughter. "I guess we had better go down to breakfast."

The en suite loo took her a bit by surprise, though in a pleasant, relieved sort of way. "Oh, thank _God_ ," she said. "I could murder for a quick shower."

He slipped his hand around her shoulders. "I should just resign myself to hunger for the next thirty minutes, shouldn't I?" he asked in a tone that suggested he was about to be martyred.

She was about to protest, but then said in an even voice, "Probably, though I think there's room for two so you don't have to spend your hunger pang-filled minutes in agonising solitude. Plus, you can keep me on task."

He raised a brow. "We'll see about that."

They were both relatively well-behaved for being naked, wet, and covered in soapy lather; all told the friskiness cancelled out his keeping her on task, just as Mark had predicted. After drying off and dressing, Bridget said, "All right, all set to go."

Mark gave her a long look.

"What is it?"

"Er, not quite sure how to ask this without being bollocked, but…"

She narrowed her eyes. "But what?"

"What about your makeup?"

She blinked; he flinched, clearly expecting her to shriek something along the lines of: "Why? Do you think I need it?" This made her laugh. "I forgot," she said instead.

"You… forgot."

She nodded. "Give me a moment."

As she powdered her face in the bathroom mirror, he sidled up to her, leaned up against the door jamb and asked, "Bridge, are you feeling quite all right?"

"It's that… dream," she said. "I'm all discombobulated."

"Ah, yes," he said. "This place doing weird things to time. It must be if you forgot to put on your makeup."

"That's what's so odd," she said. "It feels more like… I've fallen out of the habit. Which is odd."

"I'll say."

With that she finished applying a light coat of mascara, then turned to look up at him. "Let's go get something to eat. Ooh! Hope they have honey cakes."

Mark raised a brow. "Now I'm tempted to feel for a fever. Usually you're begging for chocolate something."

As they exited the room, Mark turned right, but Bridget said, "No, let's go this way. There's another stairway just there that'll put us just outside the ballroom."

Again Mark's brow raised, but he followed in silence down the aforementioned stairs, which indeed ended on the main floor just outside the converted ballroom restaurant. 

"Bridget," he asked as they were seated for breakfast. "You've not been obsessing online about this place, have you?"

"What do you mean?" she asked in return.

"Memorising floor plans, for example?"

"Of course not. That's ridiculous," she scoffed.

"So how did you know about that staircase? We haven't been touring the grounds yet and that staircase… well, you don't know they're there until you're practically halfway down them. And to know that they'd dump us out where they did… that borders on psychic, otherwise."

She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. Instead, she smiled and said in a mysterious tone, "I guess it's just women's intuition."

The answer obviously didn't satisfy him, but he looked slightly terrified/suspicious, and didn't press the issue.

"Good morning, miss," came a third voice. "Good morning, sir. What can I bring you for breakfast?"

Bridget looked up and to her astonishment seemed to peering up into the face of Georgiana's lady's maid! Her mouth dropped open. "Elizabeth?"

The girl chuckled. "No, it's Karen." She tapped her pen against her chin. "But funny you say that—bit of history, I had an ancestor who worked here a long time ago, early 1800s, high position in service, and she was called Elizabeth. My family's stayed in the area and it seems to be tradition that we work here."

Bridget found she couldn't speak; thankfully, Mark spoke up. "I believe my fiancée was interested in the possibility of honey cakes."

"Oh, yes, family recipe." She wrote it down. "And for you, sir?" 

"Same."

"And drinking chocolate," added Bridget. "Thanks."

Breakfast was uneventful as was the rest of the day; they took walk around the grounds, had a picnic, and even did rowboats on the nearby lake. The only thing that bothered her (besides the eerie déjà vu feeling) was that Mark seemed to be regarding her in an odd manner, though if there was something on his mind, if there was something he wanted to ask, he didn't say a word and otherwise was quite normal.

After dinner that evening they returned to the suite. Mark scooped her into his arms and kissed her passionately. "I have a little celebratory surprise in a bit," he said, "but for the moment…" He needed to say nothing more; he merely kissed her again then proceeded to lovingly divest her of her clothing. After he did, he swept her up to carry her over to the bed, where he set her down. Unbidden, she thought he was more like his ancestor than she remembered…

"What's this about?" he asked with amusement, drawing a lingering finger over her collarbone and throat. 

"What's what?"

"You're blushing," he said, "and more than quite a bit."

"It's nothing," she said. "I'm…"

Before she could finish, he kissed her again. "It's all right," he said. "It's quite becoming, actually."

"And you…" she said, "you are overdressed."

With her assistance he was out of his clothes, then, perhaps due to said assistance, pinned her down to the bed and made ardent and insistent love to her, rebuffing any of her attempts to return the affection. She wondered about this sudden spike in libido—after all, it wasn't as if they hadn't just shagged that morning—though did not find it anything worth worrying about.

They were just resting in the afterglow when there was a quiet rap at the door. "Oh," said Mark tiredly, then chuckled a little. "That'll be the surprise."

"Ooo," she said, pushing herself up. Room service? "What did you order?"

He rose from the bed, pulling a dressing gown around him. "Give it a moment, and you'll know."

Moments later, he returned with a tray, the sight of which brought tears to her eyes and a smile to her face: on it was a bottle of champagne, two flutes, a plate of chocolates, and a small vase of the reddest roses she had ever seen. _Well, no_ , she thought. _I have seen roses this red before._

"These are from Georgiana's rose garden," she blurted out.

Mark looked stunned. "They are," he said. "But the concierge told me about them specially after I mentioned that it was our engagement. He made a point of saying they don't publicise the roses on their website or anywhere else. How on earth did you know?" Before she had a chance to answer, though, he smiled. "Given your natural affinity for this place, and this era, and for knowing things you really shouldn't know… I am beginning to suspect you are in fact the reincarnation of Elizabeth Bennet."

She chuckled; after all, of the main characters in the book, Lizzie and her family were among the few not based on real people. "That's because _you_ are the reincarnation of Fitzwilliam Darcy," she retorted. 

This caused him to recoil a bit. "I am _not_."

She laughed again. "Oh, I know," she said, "and I love you very much for it."

_The end._


End file.
